


The Things With Feathers

by jukeboxes



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Love, M/M, Romance, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 09:33:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukeboxes/pseuds/jukeboxes
Summary: Wheeljack has been dropping enough hints… maybe it’s time he flew some in.





	The Things With Feathers

Perceptor called it a “flight of fancy”. Skyfire was kinder, calling it a distraction. 

Wheeljack was inclined to disagree. And he did, each time they mentioned it.

Wheeljack appreciated their advice—in any subject—but paid them no mind when it came to relationship advice. Neither of them desired a romantic partner. And neither of them were, ah, especially proficient in social interaction.

No matter what his friends said, Wheeljack was in love.

It was a bubbly feeling that made his fingers jitter. Whenever he and Ratchet spoke, his smile grew so much that his cheeks pressed against his mask. There was an easy comfort, a nice familiarity when the two of them were together. He was practically intoxicated by the feeling.

And Ratchet… well, Ratchet was observant, but not quite astute. Wheeljack had been dropping hints for a few centuries now. They were small hints, not meant to be easily picked up on. Perceptor and Skyfire had understood, but it was their jobs to observe things. No, he dropped hints Ratchet would see only if he wanted to. So far he hadn’t seen a single one.

Wheeljack frowned. He leaned back in his office chair to stare at the ceiling. _Maybe it was time to be a bit more forward,_ he thought. _Look for an opening. Make him a gift. Clean the med-bay when he is tired after a battle._

His most ambitious attempt at telling Ratchet how he felt was about three years ago. It involved one bottle of antique engex, one handmade energon scalpel, and one excruciatingly bad day. To this day, Ratchet remained in the dark.

Wheeljack fingered his cube of energon. He took a sip.

Then Wheeljack spilled it all over himself. He’d jumped at his office communicator’s shrill beeps. With something like dread, Wheeljack reached over and punched the button.

“Wheeljack here!”

“BIRDS. GET THEM OUT.” Speak of the devil.

“Hey Ratch. I actually don’t control the bird population around the _Ark_ —"

“I don’t care; they’re making a mess!” There was an edge to Ratchet’s voice. Wheeljack decided to stop teasing him.

“I’ll start walking over now.”

Wheeljack stood up and stretched. Taking his cube of energon, he walked out of his office, through his lab, and out the door. He locked it and strolled down the length of the hallway. The medbay doors opened automatically and he strutted through them, arms outstretched.

“I, Wheeljack the Smartest, am here to solve all of your problems!” He boomed. 

First Aid, who was standing next to a counter sorting boxes of small parts, laughed.

“Office,” he said, nodding his head at Ratchet’s sanctuary. He obviously knew why Wheeljack was here.

“How bad is the infestation, Aid?” Wheeljack asked, sauntering toward the Hatchet's lair.

“There’s a few feathers on the floor outside the vent. And I think I heard a muffled tweet or something.”

“That bad, huh?” Wheeljack cracked his neck. “Well, good thing you called in the expert.”

Before he could open the office door, he heard a small _psssst_. He turned to First Aid.

“If you could get him out of here,” First Aid whispered, “he’s been on shift for thirty-one hours.”

“He’s starting to nitpick, huh?” Wheeljack asked.

“I can’t get a quiet moment!” Laughing, First Aid held up a part and waved it.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Wheeljack winked.

It was quite a scene in Ratchet’s office. He had pulled over one of the visitor chairs to sit directly under the vent on the wall across from the door. Ratchet stood precariously on the chair. His right arm was stretched deep in the vent, grabbing for the bird. True to First Aid’s word there were three red feathers on the floor.

Ratchet caught sight of Wheeljack over his shoulder and huffed. Stepping down, he pointed straight up at the vent.

“Get those mangey things out of here!” He snarled. “I’m trying to work!”

“I don’t know if birds can get mange…” Wheeljack jumped up on the chair and peered down the vent. Yup. Two birds, bright red. Also, agitated.

“Useless things. I can tolerate humans most of the time, but this planet’s fauna are just—”

“Adorable?” He grinned.

“Overwhelming.”

“I like birds… they remind me of the turbohawks back home. My cousin had one—its name was—”

“Wasn’t owning a turbohawk illegal?” Ratchet interrupted. He crossed his arms like he was about to turn Wheeljack over to the enforcers.

Wheeljack’s headfins flushed a contrite pink.

“It was so cute though!”

“I never trusted turbohawks,” Ratchet said, “Their optics were always so beady. And tiny.” He shivered. Wheeljack turned to look at Ratchet, face blank.

“Are you… scared of birds?” Wheeljack leaned back.

“Of course not!”

“You answered that a bit too quick, Ratch…”

“It’s—” Ratchet wretched his hands and tensed his shoulders. “When I was first learning the intricacies of optical surgery, a turbohawk would always sit outside the classroom window, _staring_ at me. I could barely concentrate because of the blasted thing.”

While Ratchet had been distracted talking, Wheeljack had finished off his ration. He began poking holes in the bottom of his cube. “Wasn’t the optics module the one you almost failed?”

“The thing drove me insane! I couldn’t eat toward the end of the semester!”

“Are you sure the not-eating thing wasn’t a symptom of your fear of failure?”

Ratchet scowled.

“No,” he said slowly, “it was definitely the bird.”

“Whatever you say, Ratch. Got the birds, by the way. Aren’t they cute?” Wheeljack shoved the cube (now full of birds) closer to Ratchet. Ratchet’s face scrunched up as he moved back a step.

“ _Eurgh_. Get them out!” He waved in the door’s direction.

Wheeljack almost began walking to the door, that is, until he thought of something. 

“I don’t think these birds are native to the Pacific Northwest. We should wait for Hound to get done with his shift. He’ll know where to take them.”

“They’ll make a mess!” He whined, grimacing.

“If they do, I’ll help clean it up.”

Ratchet stood next to the door for a moment. Then he sighed and went behind his desk. He was careful to stay as far away from the two birds as possible.

Without realizing he was staring, Wheeljack caught sight of Ratchet’s hands and scoffed. 

“Ratchet,” he said, and Ratchet’s stare pierced him in the best way, “you need to touch up the paint on your hands.”

Ratchet straightened and brought his hands up. He gazed at his fingers, stretching and contracting his digits. 

“I suppose I do,” he said. “ _Mechs judge a medic by their hands_ , and all that.”

“Well,” said Wheeljack, a bit bashful, “I’m sure everyone here on the _Ark_ trusts you implicitly… no matter how patchy your hands are.” Ratchet laughed. It was a deep chuckle with an edge of exhaustion on it. 

“Could you give me a hand, then?” Ratchet asked. One bird gave a squawk. “In here though, so I can keep an optic on those blasted things.”

“Better the devil you know?”

“Whatever.”

Ratchet plopped down into the chair behind his desk, aft sliding to the edge of the seat. The stretched his whole body and let out a satisfied groan.

“My shoulders are all locked up!” Ratchet grumbled, as did one of his knees. _Chrr-klunk_. “And my knee too,” he amended. “Is this what it’s like to get old, Jackie?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what it’s like to overexert yourself.” Setting the bird-filled cube on one visitor chair, Wheeljack sat in the other.

Ratchet stretched his arms into the air. His back cracked as he twisted slightly. Wheeljack finally realized he was staring and quickly glanced at the birds. Both were fluffed up, agitated after being removed from the vent. They had mostly red feathers and yellow and blue wings. He did a quick google search.

“The scarlet macaw, or _Ara macao,_ is a large South American parrot… it is native to the humid forests of tropical South America… it has suffered from local extinction through habitat destruction and capture for the parrot trade, but locally it remains fairly common. Wikipedia.” Wheeljack rattled off, sounding more and more interested as he read. “They’re so far north!”

“Probably products of that parrot trade you mentioned. I would think you’d know all about it, with the turbohawk and everything…” Ratchet was feeling better, Wheeljack thought, with that snark.

“It was my cousin’s!” He laughed.

After he was done stretching, Ratchet reached down and opened one of his desk drawers. He withdrew a clear medium-sized pouch. It contained a small bottle of instant-dry red paint—Ratchet’s red—not unlike human nail polish. Ratchet took out another, taller bottle of gentle paint stripper and a rag. Wheeljack took the supplies and set to work.

He leaned over Ratchet’s hands, hunching his shoulders. He heard a _tsk tsk tsk_.

“Sit up!” Ratchet admonished.

“Do I tell you how to work?” 

Ratchet mumbled. 

“I thought not.” Wheeljack said.

Ratchet smelled like a laboratory. To anyone but Wheeljack, it was a terrible, impersonal, medical smell. To Wheeljack, it smelled like satisfaction. He smelled like finally getting an invention to work one evening and cracking open a nice bottle of engex to celebrate. 

Wheeljack thought back to a month ago, when he’d completed work on an upgraded plasma rifle scope. Four times more zoom than the armory’s current stock. Plus, it contained two less parts, making it more economical. And since both parts were expensive and rare, their inventory manager had thanked him with some counterfeit engex. Wheeljack had invited Ratchet over to relax and—

Daydreaming, the brush jerked minutely. No one would notice it… except Ratchet. Damn.

“Uh, Ratch? I, uh, I painted over the existing color.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ratchet shrugged, “no one will notice.”

“You’ll notice.” Wheeljack said. “It’ll bother you.”

Ratchet flexed his hands. “At the rate I’m going, they’ll need a repaint in a decaorn. I can live with that.”

It was quiet for a minute.

“You know,” Wheeljack began, “they mate for life, the parrots. Like us.” He looked up at Ratchet from under his helm. “Like humans, too.”

Ratchet snorted. “Humans only like to think they do.”

Wheeljack chuckled and went back to painting Ratchet’s fingers. The two sat in companionable silence for a while.

Suddenly, Ratchet sucked in a breath and froze. Wheeljack did the same out of instinct. The two of them sat there for a few seconds, unmoving. The only noise was from the small jitters of the two parrots.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ratchet said softly. Wheeljack tilted his head.

“What do you mean? About what?” 

“Can you open your face-mask?”

Wheeljack acquiesced.

Ratchet stood, leaned down… and then Wheeljack saw supernovas. 

It was a kiss, smooth and rough at the same time. Wheeljack powered off his optics and leaned closer, breathing in deeply. It was exactly like he’d imagined. It was everything he'd ever wanted. Easy comfort. Nice familiarity. It was Ratchet, his best friend.

Wheeljack was in love.

The kiss must have lasted only seconds. Ratchet pulled back but kept his face close. Wheeljack realized Ratchet was holding his face. His grip was tender.

“About that,” Ratchet said at last. “Why didn't you tell me before?”

Wheeljack could barely breathe.  


“I like being your friend. Just because I wanted more doesn’t mean our friendship is unsatisfying or unfulfilling.” 

_But_ , he thought, _after that kiss, I’m not sure I could take being just friends._

Ratchet finally let go of his face, only to hold it again a second later.

“You know I’m stupid,” Ratchet said after a moment.

“You’re just tired,” Wheeljack said.

“You think too much of me.” Ratchet replied, snorting a bit.

“Just the world,” he smiled and kissed Ratchet again.


End file.
